


The Struggle

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [7]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Fish out of Water, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Marriage, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia reflects on her life at the Kuchiki estate.  Byakuya inquires about Rukia’s position at the Thirteenth Division.  Hisana and Byakuya discuss Captain Aizen’s involvement in the family’s business affairs.  Byakuya confronts Hisana about her health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Struggle

Rukia’s eyes are searching.  Always searching.  She feels lost sometimes in the labyrinthine estate.  The space is so  _grand_ and she so  _diminutive_ .  

It feels _oppressive_. 

She never thought it possible to find expanse oppressive.  Not after living in Inuzuri, where the lack of space stifled the spirit and kept a hunger burning hot in their bellies.  The small poorly constructed bivouacs were not fit enough for one person, and yet they managed to cram inside five, sometimes eight, people. 

Those were the days, she thinks somberly to herself.

At least, then, she had a place; she had a modicum of autonomy; and, she had carved out a name for herself, her identity cut deep into stone.  The struggle was palpable—always nipping at her heels and threatening to end her—but there was warmth.  There was a feeling of being part of something, of _belonging_.  And, while that feeling may not have always been sure or fixed or stable, it was _something_.  It was _honest_.

Now, she has empty halls, strange protocols that require her to don even stranger affectations, duty, honor, and the constant icy chill of judgment blowing at her back. 

She still has some warmth, though.

She isn’t starving.  She isn’t threadbare and barefoot.  She isn’t homeless.  But, she isn’t in charge anymore.  Far from it. 

She still has the struggle, though.  It is of a different ilk, now.  A change in circumstances brought about its metamorphism, but it remains ever present, ever constant, and only ever an arm’s length away. 

Her struggle has become more complicated, she thinks.  What is required of her is strange and ineffable, but it haunts her halls and the winding pathways of her mind.  It keeps her on edge even when she should be at peace.  It is freedom on a gilded leash.  It is power, diluted and bladed.  It is the breath of failure skating down her neck.

She isn’t ungrateful; however, the unearned perks make her feel impotent.  It makes her question the validity of her successes, and this uncertainty undercuts every feat.  Did she receive the Fifth Seat position because of merit or influence?  If not for Brother, would she have become a Shinigami?  Renji will never have to consider these questions.  If he fails, it is all him.  If he succeeds, it is all him.   For him, it is pure, simple, and clear-cut.

Renji doesn’t understand. 

He thinks she has it _all_ —riches, power, and family.  From his perspective, she’s struck the cosmic lottery.  Every time he sees the enormity of the estate and the vast power and influence her title carries, his face lights up.  Every time he catches her with her sister or brother, he smiles winsomely for her.

She wishes she could borrow some of his enthusiasm or his ear, but she doesn’t have the heart to crush his fantasies, whimsical and imaginative.  She does not tell him of her loneliness or the crushing burden of living up to high expectations.  She does not burden Renji with her worries.  Never would.  Never has.  Couldn’t fathom doing such a thing.  He wouldn’t understand, and, rightly, he would find her concerns to be trifling—or worse, a slap in the face. 

Sister understands, she thinks. 

Hisana understands better than anyone else, but Sister is always very deliberate with her words; they conceal more than they express outright.  There is always something hidden and mysterious simmering right beneath the surface—something that Rukia wishes to clarify, but she never finds the courage to inquire.  She thinks her sister wouldn’t mind explaining, but, then, the explanation would be equally as vague, wouldn’t it?

Rukia turns her head.  Her eyes trail from her writing desk, which is littered with hastily penned doodles of cartoon rabbits and bears, to the tatami.  Her inky silhouette stretches across the floor, beginning at her knees and creeping up a nearby wall. 

Her gaze lingers.  Long and hard, she scrutinizes the contours and the midnight black color.  She can’t help but notice just how small the attenuated shadow is in comparison to the space that confines it. 

A knuckle raps against her door.  Its strength and quickness tells Rukia that it is the steward.   The languor in the rebound of his knock convinces her that the matter is not pressing so she turns back to her desk. 

“Yes,” she answers softly, and she wonders what brings him to her room at such an early hour.

“The Lord and Lady request your presence, Lady Rukia.”

Her muscles reflexively clench, and she nods to herself.  Anything to conjure her strength.  “Yes,” she murmurs. 

She knew it would come.  They would want to know her results.  She just hopes they will be pleased.

Sister will be pleased, she thinks.  As Renji observed the night before, Sister is always pleased.  Rukia could announce her desire to join a traveling actor’s troupe, and Hisana would give her full support. 

Brother, on the other hand, is more exacting.  Of everyone.  Even Hisana.  He expects duty, honor, and, above all else, obedience.  He expects _perfection_ , and this expectation pushes Rukia to be better, but it also mortifies her.

It is so easy to fall short.   Too easy.  Sometimes, Rukia feels that all she does is fall short.  She is _wanting_ —too young, too unlearned, too uncultured, too dull, and too weak.

So, with her heart thundering in her chest and with her pulse ringing in her ears, she stands.  In a fluid motion, she is across the room.  “I am coming,” she announces shortly before she pulls back the panel.  She bows to the steward, an act that once unnerved him, but, now, he expects it.

Ever mindful of their relative statuses, the steward reciprocates Rukia’s gesture with a lower bow.  “Come, milady, his Lordship and her Ladyship wait in the Flower Room.”

Rukia nods as if she understands.  It’s a lie.  She doesn’t know where the “Flower Room” is or _what_ it is.  In fact, she did not know such a place existed until _now_. 

“Yes,” she replies, and she is grateful when he leads the way. 

In the usual manner, he announces her arrival, and she kneels outside the threshold of the room.  Carefully, she opens the door and waits for Byakuya’s instruction for her to enter.

She always hates entering the room when Brother is present.  With Sister, she is less diligent with the prescribed protocol.  Rukia thinks Hisana’s leniency stems from her sister’s guilt; Hisana finds the protocol wasted on her because she feels underserving of such respect.  It doesn’t help that the other family members are quick to remind Hisana of her _luck_ and of their _misfortune_.

Brother, however, comes from this world.  He is mired in its traditions, and he expects conformity.  Rukia knows this because she watches Sister.  She has memorized every one of her sister’s movements upon entering a room, from which hand to use when and where to the number of steps it takes to shuffle into the room. 

This mental recording plays in her head, and she follows it to perfection:  Her fingertips gently slide the door open the length of a forefinger.  Placing the same hand on the frame, approximately nine inches above the floor, she slides it open halfway.  Gracefully, she switches hands and opens it the rest of the way. 

Mindful of her body and her balance, she slides across the threshold, and she is just as meticulous about closing the door.

One small glance into the chamber is all she needs to know where to go.  There is a spare cushion set opposite of her siblings.  A small table separates them from her, Rukia notes. 

A buffer.

Rukia doesn’t think it is intentional.  They certainly are not distancing themselves from her as punishment.  It is tradition, a cold emotionless tradition to which nobles cling with white knuckles for _stability_. 

Rukia never had much use for _stability_ or predictability, for that matter.  It is a revelation that she has unearthed about herself since arriving at the manor.

Upon sitting on the cushion, Rukia bows again, just as her sister does during formal occasions, with arms stretched forward and fingertips pressed lightly against the floor.  Through the strands of hair that fall forward, she searches her sister. 

 _Always searching_.

If she looks too quick or too carelessly, she catches glimpses of herself in her sister.  It is quite remarkable, actually.  Hisana is nearly her mirror image.  There are subtle differences, however, Rukia reminds herself.  Hisana’s hair trails down her shoulders whereas the ends of Rukia’s tresses barely kiss the tops of her shoulders. Hisana stands a head taller; her complexion paler; her eyes violet; and, she has long shed the gangly limbs and physique of adolescence that Rukia still possesses. 

Yet, the servants continue to confuse them. 

Brother never has. 

Rukia doubts he ever will.  Not once has her presence elicited the same sort of response in him that her sister seems to inspire. Likely, he finds their differences too stark, too jarring.  Briefly, she wonders what he thinks of the individuals who mistake them.  Nothing good, she can only imagine.

“Rise, Rukia,” Byakuya states in a cool deadpan intonation.  His look is even cooler, almost bored, as he acknowledges her.  His visage is smooth, not a single wrinkle or crease mars his ageless features.

Rukia bows her head and tries to quell the fluttering in her stomach.  Despite his tutoring, she cannot help but notice the gulf that separates them.  He is strong, noble, and elegant.  He is the master of his domain, and she is a mere guest, or worse, a _project_. 

He isn’t as remote on the training field, Rukia recognizes.  No, he is serene and caring when he instructs her.  But, tearoom etiquette is much different from battle training. 

She prefers her brother, the Tutor, to her brother, the Head of the House.  

Reflexively, Rukia’s gaze snaps up to Hisana, who sits a few feet to Byakuya’s left.  The physical distance between the couple is small, likely only two paces, but there is a cold professionalism between them, one that stands in violent contrast to what Rukia witnessed the night before. 

Indeed, Hisana sits at her husband’s side not as his consort or lover but as his dutiful Second. 

Hisana acknowledges Rukia with a small bow of the head and a warm gaze, but her body language is rigid.  Her back is ramrod straight, and she holds her head high as if she is a queen.  Indeed, the pair looks quite stately, very official and very detached.

“You have news,” Byakuya’s voice tears through Rukia’s thoughts like a warm blade through butter. 

Again, Rukia searches her sister, but Hisana’s features are enigmatic.  She might as well be wearing the thick white paint of a kabuki actor because her role as Lady requires her to hide her inner thoughts, whatever they may be.  She does not flinch or make the smallest of motions.  No smile.  No knowing glint radiating in her eyes.  No hints, whatsoever. 

Byakuya could be prepared to crown Rukia Queen of Soul Society, or he could be prepared to slit her throat.  Rukia is none the wiser. 

“Yes,” Rukia begins, her voice quavering.  She lowers her head, and her eyes drop to her lap where her hands ball together.  “I received my rank at the Thirteenth Division.”

 _Silence_.

Rukia is unsure if she should continue or if she should wait.  Often, she chooses to wait.  Byakuya will encourage her to speak if he wishes it, which he does:  “What position did you obtain?”

Keeping her eyes fixed on the deep umber-colored threads of her kimono, Rukia answers with a meek, “Fifth Seat.”  Inwardly, she cringes, but she refrains from making any stray movements.  Force of will keeps her muscles tight and locked.

“Congratulations, Rukia,” Byakuya states, and, for a moment, his mask of impassivity drops, and she thinks she can hear the swell of pride in his voice. 

“Thank you, Brother.  I could not have achieved this honor without your and Sister’s support.  I wish I could express my gratitude with more than words.”  Indeed, she wishes she could put the intense strumming in her heart to words, but her mental faculties fail her as soon as she lifts her gaze to meet his. 

 _Bad move_.  In a second, she sits frozen in _absolute horror_.  In fact, she is sure her body temperature plummets to _absolute zero_. 

“You can,” Byakuya replies in a low tenor.

Rukia’s eyes flit up, and her chest clenches, strangling the breath rising up her throat. 

“Honor the family through your accomplishments at the Thirteenth Division,” he continues.

Rukia nods excitedly. 

 _Of course, I will_. 

She does not speak the words, but they sprawl across her face for him to read with ease.  “Yes, Brother.  I will,” the words come spluttering gracelessly from her lips, but she recovers with a bow.  It isn’t the bow that her sister taught her.  No, it is the bow of an Inuzuri peasant, betraying her meager status and breeding.

Byakuya does not startle at her inelegance.  He stares down at her with that indescribable distant look lodged in his eyes.  The unreadable one.  The one that provokes fear and dread.   “You are dismissed, Rukia.”

“Yes, Brother.”

Hisana does not speak a word.  She merely watches as Rukia scurries out of the room, tangled in the web of her thoughts and strangled by etiquette.  When the door clacks shut, Hisana turns to her husband. 

He is in a mood, she observes silently to herself. 

She does not pursue it.  It is no use, she tells herself.  He will express his concerns when he is good and ready. 

Instead, she refreshes his tea and her own.  

Silence, tense and steady, wraps them in a vice grip.  The grip tightens with each passing moment until the weight of the words they swallow back threatens to asphyxiate them.

“You spoke at length with Captain Aizen,” Byakuya murmurs into his cup.

 _Thank the gods,_ she sighs inwardly, grateful that her husband pierced the cruel silence.

Remembering herself, Hisana’s large eyes focus on him, and she responds, initially, with a nod of her head.  “That is correct.  He approached me to discuss the proposal’s ethical considerations.”

“Ethical considerations?”  Another sip, and Byakuya gives her an incredulous sidelong glance.  With considerable effort, she thinks, he sweeps away any trace of emotion from his eyes and mien.

Again, she nods her head.  “Over the monitoring technology.” 

Briefly, she stares into her cup.  The steam begins to thin until she can see her own reflection.  Pensive and a touch worried.   “I thought it was strange.  Do the 46 Chambers frequently commission an ethics consult for business investments?”  She has a niggling feeling that the answer is “no.” 

“Usually, the Central Chambers are not permitted to interfere in the business arrangements among the nobility,” he states matter-of-factly, but his gaze betrays him.  He stares distantly ahead as if he is sorting through some complex algorithm to which she is not privy.   “However,” he begins, methodically, “the Central 46 may intervene in the affairs of a noble family where treason is suspected or a possibility.” 

“Treason?” Hisana echoes in disbelief.  Her eyes widen, her brows furrow, and she feels the cold sting of breath catching against the back of her throat.  “Since when has industrializing Rukongai become a treasonous offence?”  

“It is treason for any citizen to create weapons of a dangerous nature not sanctioned by the Central 46,” he murmurs as if to himself.  Clearly, he is trying to work through the logic and merits of such an accusation, and he comes up _wanting_.

She does, too.

Taking a long sip of her tea, Hisana shakes her head.  “The monitoring system is not a weapon,” she states defensively as if he raised the argument himself.

“Could it be weaponized?”  This time he glimpses her, unguarded.  Concern clouds his gray eyes, and his lips purse ever so slightly.

 _Could it?_ she wonders to herself.  _Indirectly, perhaps_ , she thinks as various hypotheticals dance in her mind.    

“Perhaps it has some militaristic applications,” she concludes after exhausting her mental catalogue, “but it could not be wielded as a weapon directly because it cannot physically harm anyone.  At most, it could yield potentially advantageous information.  With requisite infrastructure, perhaps, one could keep track of souls and quickly apprehend criminals before they abscond into neighboring districts.  But, such use is unsuitable for our purposes.”

His lips slope into a frown at this.  “Perhaps it is merely a precaution.”

 _Since when has the Central 46 ever diligently applied the precautionary principle?_ she scoffs to herself.  Yet again, her thoughts fly to the Twelfth and the division’s _experiments_ , which seem to lack any scrutiny or oversight.  If the Twelfth can operate without myriad bureaucratic hurdles, how does this seemingly innocuous piece of information technology merit an ethical inquisition? 

“What was Captain Aizen’s opinion?” Byakuya asks.

She exhales a small sigh.  “He did not say _much_ ,” her voice sharpens at the observation. 

On reflection, Captain Aizen’s lack of insight perturbs her.  What little information that he deigned to reveal was not particularly illuminating.  Instead, he mostly listened as Tadahiro described the current blueprints.  The project would be handed off to Tadahiro’s company’s R&D in a few weeks.  According to Tadahiro’s projections, the technology should be workable in a few years.  Until then, the families would begin to “cultivate” the first ten districts.

“His appointment likely prohibits him from speaking in detail about the inquiry,” Byakuya notes.

“Isn’t it odd that the Central 46 would involve a Captain of the Gotei 13?  A lot of blurred lines, no?”  To say the least.  The cautious separation of powers seems to have been flung out the proverbial window.  How odd.

All she needs is to take one look at her husband to know he agrees with her assessment.

“Indeed,” he says.

Hisana refills their teacups and relishes the burn of hot liquid against her tongue as she gulps down a mouthful of tea.  It sharpens her mind for a moment, and it pulls her thoughts to _other_ fixations.  Such as Gin Ichimaru’s sudden captainship.  “So, Vice Captain Ichimaru,” she begins, cocking a brow. 

“He is a captain,” Byakuya states humorlessly, and he quickly tilts his cup back.

She smiles knowingly. 

The tea proves to be a poor cover for his dismay.  Not that she disagrees with his assessment.  Gin Ichimaru is _unsettling_ , purposively so.  The thought of him running a division is not particularly reassuring, nor does it make her think highly of the Gotei 13.  She will never understand why Captain Aizen appointed Ichimaru as his Vice Captain in the first place.  Ichimaru doesn’t seem particularly trustworthy—not the sort of man that one would want at his back in dire times. 

“Captain of the?” she starts, hoping he will fill in the blank.

“Third.”

She nods.  “How appropriate.”

He lifts his head at this, and a questioning look creases his forehead and bends his brows. 

“The insignia is the marigold, right?” she asks, and, when Byakuya does not correct her, she smiles deviously.  “Despair,” she remarks, stating plainly the flower’s meaning.

She can tell he wants to smirk at her observation, but he restrains himself and takes another drink of tea.  Placing his cup down, he bows his head slightly, and his eyes focus on the tatami. 

Silence once again creeps into the room.  It falls heavy, and it seems to thicken the air, making it harder to breathe.  At least, that is what Hisana first thinks.  Upon feeling her husband’s reiatsu beat against her, she realizes the prior discussion is not the source of her husband’s foul mood.  It was merely a diversion, a red herring. 

She decides to abandon her previous method of waiting for him to approach her when his melancholia begins to color his spiritual pressure.  She can almost _taste_ his lugubriousness.  “Is—”

“When were you going to apprise me of your appointment?” he interjects before she has the chance to complete her question.  Hurt flickers in his voice, and his eyes, still glued to the floor, harden.

 _So much for medical privacy_. 

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and holds her breath.  Anything to restart her heart.  How she hates to hear the displeasure in his voice.

“I did not want to worry you, milord,” she explains in a long, shaky breath. 

It is the truth.  He has so much responsibility, so much to worry about.  _Important_ things, too.  Life and death matters.  She doesn’t want to preoccupy his mind with the mundane and trivial. 

He lifts his head, and he fixes her with a look.  Wrath does not reside in his eyes.  Not at all.  His expression is a fine mixture of concern and disquiet.

 _I am so sorry_.  She wants to say the words.  They sting at her throat, but she pressed her tongue firmly against the roof of her mouth to prevent their escape. 

It would be a lie.  She isn’t sorry she did not inform him.  She’s only sorry she caused him pain. 

Dropping her gaze to her hands, laced tightly in her lap, she tilts her chin up slightly.  “I scheduled the last transfusion.  They say it will remove the trace amounts of poison that lingers.” 

Surreptitiously, she eyes him.  He stares distantly ahead with furrowed brow and muted grief.  _He remembers the last time_. 

She remembers the last time, and her heart aches.   

_It was…_

She cannot find the words to describe the overwhelming sense of trepidation that breaks over her with the force of a hurricane hammering a shore. 

She nearly died the last time.  And, how she suffered as she clung to life.  Her body handled the transfusions _poorly_.  All she remembers is writhing in searing pain.  She felt like the Fourth had set her very soul on fire—a slow burning _gas_ fire, at that. 

“I thought scheduling it now would be prudent since you and Rukia will be busy with your new obligations.”  It is an implicit admission that the doctors and healers require her to take her convalescence in solitude. 

Her tongue swells in her mouth and her throat goes dry at the thought of facing the brutal treatment _alone_.  But, there is no other way.  Both Byakuya and Rukia possess a level of spiritual power that could damage her in what will be a severely compromised state. 

Pain colors her husband’s visage.  His eyes darken, and his jaws clench.  “You must recover alone, then?”  Byakuya asks with great dismay. 

“They say it will only be a day.  They say it won’t be as bad.”  They say _a lot_ of things, Hisana notes wryly in her head.  Sometimes, they are correct.  Often times, they are not. 

One glance, and she knows he doesn’t believe her words.  For an moment, she wonders if his skepticism is aimed at _her_ or at the prognosis.  It’s not like she _hasn’t_ lied to him about her condition a time or twenty.  She can’t quite blame him for his incredulousness, but she prickles at it nonetheless. 

“I will be fine, milord.” 

She hopes.

Their eyes meet.  He does not express the grief locked behind his stare, and she does not attempt to mollify his fears.  There is no use.  Not any more.  Not after what they have been through. 

He merely takes her hand in his, and he gives it a firm squeeze.


End file.
